


To Heal

by afriendtosell



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 01:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3917926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afriendtosell/pseuds/afriendtosell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war takes its toll on everybot—most of all the Wreckers.  Ratchet sees more of the squad bounce through his infirmaries than any other: they the daredevils of Cybertron, the madbots, the warriors, the oilthirsty gladiators whom Megatron never quite convinced with his ideas of revolution and scrapmetal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Heal

**Author's Note:**

> a prompt by wrecknrule over at tumblr. The first time Ratchet and Wheeljack meet.

The war takes its toll on everybot—most of all the Wreckers. Ratchet sees more of the squad bounce through his infirmaries than any other; they the daredevils of Cybertron, the madbots, the warriors, the oilthirsty gladiators whom Megatron never quite convinced with his ideas of revolution and scrapmetal.

He’s told others his reservations, his apprehensions over the Catch-22 the Wreckers exemplify; the more their numbers dwindle, he tells Optimus one clouded day on some plateau he cannot rightfully recall, the greater their legend grows. And much like Grimlock: the Wreckers are an inspiration to every scout and wide-optic young bot looking to make a name for themselves.

Optimus tells him that this, too, shall pass. That with the right direction, the Wreckers will continue to help turn the tide of the war—without suffering massive casualties.

Ratchet knows the look in his eyes all but too well.

He sees it again, cycles later, when first meeting the Wrecker named Wheeljack.

xxx

“Unless you agree to go through with some rather, ah—invasive surgery, there is no telling how long it will take your internal air filters to heal.”

The bot is all lean, sculpted metal, his chassis predominately silver and white. Various scars decorate his frame haphazard, a multitude of dents and distortions ornamenting him like—Ratchet assume—hard-won badges of honor. He fights the urge to scoff at the ludicrousness of it; only a Wrecker would see beauty in destruction and harm, perfection in flawed design work.

“So what you’re sayin’ here…is that I either take this surgery and get patched up,” the Wrecker says, voice gruff and croaking, tone somewhere square between grating steel and hollow exhaust, “—Or what else, ‘xactly? Not getting’ what decision I should be makin’ here, Doc.”

Ratchet sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose. “There is no ‘or what,’ here, Wheeljack. Either I perform the surgery, or I do not.”

“How long’ll I be outta comission if ya do?”

“Two cycles minimum,” Ratchet answers, holding up two fingers. “Any combat might reopen what welding will need to be done—per my orders, you’ll be grounded, and Optimus would most likely put you on training duty.”

The Wrecker’s reaction is instant. “Scrap that!”

Ratchet shakes his head, thinking: ‘Of course,’ as the predictable tirade begins.

“You can’t take me off the frontlines just for some slaggin’ patch job!”

It’s always the same song and dance—whenever a Wrecker gets cornered, whenever their bodies necessitate rest and recuperation, they rail against whatever bot is nearby. Nearly five centuries working with the worst of them, and nothing has changed. Even with the divide between Autobot and Dcepticon, it still seemed each Wrecker lived and breathed Kaon.

“My work, need I remind you, is not simple “patch,” job, Wheeljack,” Ratchet corrected, a slight edge to his voice he didn’t care enough to hide. “Though the extent of your wound isn’t spark-threatening—”

“So what’s the point if I don’t even need it?” the other bot interrupts, waving a hand through the air. “Ain’t I got plenty of time before it becomes a ‘serious’ issue?”

Here, the medic scoffs. “The ‘no telling how long’ part of the statement was more my generosity. Without the surgery, there’s a fifty-six-point-eighty-three percent chance you will never be able to properly filter out contagions in alien atmospheres,” Ratchet gestures airily, only really half-focused on the Wrecker as he sets about calibrating his tools. “At best—you will require a re-breather for the rest of however long Primus deigns it necessarily for you to exist. At worst? Any planet with a high concentration of oxygen runs the risk of rusting out your insides.”

A moment of silence draws out between the two. Ratchet expects anger, expects false-bravado and yet another dumb bot freshly Forged telling him how to do his job.

What he does not expect is Wheeljack to sigh.

“…How long?”

Ratchet blinks. “Ho—excuse me?”

“How long’ve I got?” Wheeljack asks, scratching the back of his neck. “—Before I’ll need it.”

Ratchet swivels his chair around. Wheeljack is not overly tall, not the steel behemoth that Ironhide or even Bulkhead are; but a certain—a certain weight seems inherent to his chassis. A certain heaviness. He does not know whether it comes from resignation or duty. “There’s no telling with delicate issues such as this,” he explains; and then, after a moment of thought: “Could be today, could be tomorrow. Could be the last cycle of your spark.”

“No way of knowin’ eh?”

Ratchet frowns at the smile. “You won’t survive off-planet if things get worse.”

And that, it seems, is enough to quiet them both.

“What a way to go…” Wheeljack jokes after the silence seems unbearable, shaking his head. “Dodge ‘Con fire for centuries, and it’s a little medical mishap that might put me outta commission.”

“Not—permanently, no,” Ratchet offers, “There’s always—”

And the fire rises again, rage in every joint of Wheeljack’s body. “There’s always what, old man? Rusting in the back of some med-bay sentencing other ‘bots to die; is that it?”

“Wheeljack—!”

The Wrecker isn’t looking at him anymore.

“The Wreckers are—they’re more than my crew, doc. More than my unit," he looks at the floor, smile somewhere between wistful and cocky. "They’re family; if I’m not then to protect the, then who else will?”

Ratchet sighs, slinking back into his chair. “Facts remain facts,” he says, enunciating every word. “You put yourself at risk every time you take on a mission, and not seeking help for your injury will only exacerbate your condition.”

“—But I’ve still got time, right?”

“To the Pit with time, Wheeljack!” the old medic shouts, the iron rod of his patience finally bending, his fist slamming into the medical bench beside him, denting it. “By the All-Spark, will you Wreckers ever learn? Will you ever stop sacrificing what little our species has left in your insane, irresponsible pursuit of glory?”

Wheeljack raises his finger, pointing it directly at Ratchet. “Hey, just because you have to sit here and—”

“And watch our species die, day after day? Cycle after cycle?” Now Ratchet is hollering, is losing his carefully tempered composure. “A ‘Bot hasn’t been Forged on Cybertron in over an Age!”

“We’re fighting to preserve our way of life, old man!” Wheeljack retorts, “If you can’t see that, then maybe you’re on the wrong side of this war.”

It’s the energon block that broke the Constructicon’s back.

“Get out.”

Obviously, Wheeljack is confused. “What?”

Ratchet rises to his feet, grabbing a welding iron as he goes. “Leave. Now. Before I give you a reason to stay.”

The Wrecker opens his mouth, but ends up saying nothing; doesn’t even give Ratchet another glance as he leaves. Ratchet lets out a breath, lets his servos and his gears cool off before hailing Perceptor over the comms.

“I need you to requisition something for me.”

Ratchets knows the walk of a bot set on self-destruction all but too well.

xxx

“So what’d the doc say?” Bulkhead asks, two days later.

“Who—Ratchet?” Wheeljack rolls his optics. “Old geezer wanted to cut me up and take me off the front-lines; can you believe it?”

Bulkhead tilts his head. “And you didn’t take him up on his offer?”

“Slag that noise—rather offline taking out a bunch of ‘Cons, doing some actual good for the war effort than get side-lined for Primus knows how long.”

“But Jackie, bein’ an instructor isn’t all that bad—lookit Ironhide!”

Wheeljack snorts. “Yeah, look at him. Training rust-nosed brats back on Iacon while the rest of the planet goes to scrap. What kind of fate’s that for a warrior?”

Bulkhead goes quiet long enough for Wheeljack to think something’s wrong. Wheeljack's faster than the big lug, but even Bulk knows when to make a token effort at dodging.

“What’s the matter, Bulk?” he asks, pausing mid-swing, the energy draining out of him in one giant wave. "This is the part where you typically punch back."

The bigger bot shakes his head, throwing a giant arm around Wheeljack’s shoulders. “Guess no one’s told you, huh?”

xxx

Centuries later, on a distant blue orb so far removed from Cybertron it may as well be another planet, they meet again.

Their conversation is brief.

“You went with the re-breather, I see,” Ratchet says, tinkering as usual on the ground-bridge.

Wheeljack has aged—they all have, of course, but his cocksure grin hasn’t changed. “Took two cycles off the frontlines.”

Ratchet nods. “Mm. Must’ve been difficult—for a Wrecker.”

“Yeah,” Wheeljack says, smiling at Ratchet's back. “Must be.”


End file.
